


Five Times Amanda Young Played A Game

by orphan_account



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Amanda Young Played A Game

I. _Addison_

"How much?" says the girl, stepping out of the shadows. 

Addison looks her up and down. Not a cop, she'd bet, but you never can be too sure. "Sorry," she says, "I don't do chicks."

"We don't have to..." the girl says. "We could just talk." She holds out a wad of cash and Addison sees the scars on her arms. And yeah, she knows this game. Some ex-junkie do-gooder bitch who wants to tell her where she went wrong, how she can be saved, probably read to her from the fucking bible or some other bullshit and Addison doesn't have time for this.

"I don't need to be saved," she says. "Okay? I don't need your god."

The girl smiles like she's got a secret and says quietly, "Oh, I think you might. I think that you might need _my_ god."

And Addison's done with this. "Whatever," she says, and turns to walk away.

"Hundred bucks," the girl calls after her. "A hundred if you'll just kiss me." She moves, stepping back into Addison's line of sight. "Just a kiss," she says. "That's all."

And Addison stops, because fuck knows she's done way worse for way less, and money is money, so she shakes her head, taking the proffered bill, and says, "Okay."

The girl's mouth is soft, surprisingly tentative at first. Addison doesn't kiss back, because that's not her job, but then the girl's hands are on her shoulders, sliding up to tangle in Addison's hair, tongue moving over Addison's teeth, and she finds herself responding, closing her eyes. 

When the girl pulls away, sharp and sudden, stepping back with a smug little grin smeared all over her face. "Be seeing you soon," she says, slipping into the night.

Addison wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Stupid cunt," she mutters, but that's not her problem. 

Time for a fix.

 

II. _Kerry_

Amanda drags her cart into the room, feeling the pull in her shoulders, and it's perfect, all of it. Hoffman (and she mentally recoils at even the thought of his name) will be by later to help her hoist Kerry up, but for now they're alone, together, at last.

She'd suggested this particular trap for Kerry, the Angel, because she feels like maybe Kerry's special, like perhaps she understands, just a little. There's something about her that Amanda feels drawn to, that toughness mixed with just the slightest edge of vulnerability, the stubbornness, her determination. Amanda thinks that maybe, in another world, they could have been friends; lovers, even.

Kerry's like Amanda, in that she's seen too much, but unlike Amanda, she's learned how to deal with it. Kerry is strong, like John, fierce in the way she faces the world. Amanda's only ever been afraid, a coward, someone who needs another person to lean on, always, and she thought that maybe that could change, that there was a way. John believed in her, and she tried to believe in herself, she did, she's trying, still, every day, but things are spinning out of control and the inside of her head is filled with screams and sometimes it seems like the only thing that brings her any peace is pain, is death.

Watching other people die, the witnessing of their endings, the way she's able to carry them with her. 

It helps.

(Nothing helps.)

She eases Kerry off the cart, careful not to damage the already-attached trap. Gordon has plied his skills once again, hooking each needle neatly to a rib, and Amanda is briefly envious of the intimacy that must be involved in such an operation. But Gordon's no one special, she thinks, just a technician. Surely she is the true acolyte. 

She shakes her head, banishing the thought, and busies herself about the room, readying the harness and the acid jar, and as she works, she can feel it, the weight of her secrets sitting snug against her heart, cool knowledge calm insider her like a promise.

When everything's prepared, she finally allows herself to look at Kerry, really look at her. She's beautiful, Amanda thinks, and even more so like this, eyes closed, her body cradled and held in its intricate cage. _We're inside her_ , Amanda thinks, and it's true, in a way, because there's no going back, not for any of them. 

Amanda slips her hand inside her pants, touches herself. She rubs her clit, idly, slowly, then stops, leaning down, tracing one finger over Kerry's mouth, painting it glossy with wet. She examines her handiwork, then sinks to her hands and knees, bending low, pressing a kiss to Kerry's slack lips, tasting herself. "Allison," she whispers, but there's no one to hear.

She sits up, positioning herself, one knee either side of Kerry's torso, the jagged construction of the trap digging into the skin on the sides of her legs in an entirely satisfying way, a reminder. She presses harder, closer against the steel as she strokes herself, watching Kerry's face, willing herself to keep her eyes open, even as she comes, gritting her teeth, her face a silent grimace as she inhales, one long sharp breath.

Hoffman's voice is right behind her. "You're a sick bitch, you know that?" he says.

Amanda laughs, disdainful. "Go fuck yourself."

They don't speak as they fit Kerry into her harness, raise her up, but when they're done, Hoffman asks, "You staying?" 

"Yeah," Amanda replies. "I think I will."

And Hoffman shakes his head. "Suit yourself," he says.

It's worth it, to see the fear on Kerry's face, to watch her struggle. "You," she says, as Amanda steps out of the shadows. She looks up, resigned to her fate and when the trap detonates, she flies apart like a bird taking to the sky, filled with such grace that Amanda thinks she can hardly bear it.

 

III. _Brit_

Brit's smooth, all over, in every sense of the word. Long legs and tight, hairless pussy and skin cold and flawless like some kind of statue, perfect and serene. She knows how to get what she wants and she'll use whoever she needs to, crush anyone who gets in her way.

There's a certain... bloodlessness to her, Amanda thinks, and then she smiles, because if there's one thing Amanda knows about, it's blood. Brit might be ruthless, cool as reptile but she'll bleed bright red, same as anyone else, same as all of them. Amanda swallows, feeling a pulse between her thighs and even the thought of it, blood sweet and thick and the way it _smells_ , it's like a drug, the best drug.

"Come here," Brit says, beckoning. She's naked, reclined on her bed, propped up against what seems like an endless amount of huge, soft pillows, swathed in sheets so thick Amanda wonders how anyone can fold them. Brit's beautiful, in her way, Amanda muses, but it's an artificial beauty, conventional, the kind that can be bought with trainers and fake tans and diets and the skills of a highly-paid surgeon.

Amanda finds loveliness in other things, things that are not merely an illusion.

But, still, she doesn't hesitate, crawling up the bed, eyes lowered like the penitent that, today, tonight, she's pretending to be. Brit likes to be in control, she enjoys feeling power over her lovers, and if Amanda knows how to do anything, it's play a part.

(She knows what true power is. She's seen it, felt it.)

And this is only temporary. Like all things, it will pass.

"I think," Brit says, little-girl voice clotted with greed and smug self-satisfaction, "that you should eat me." She smiles. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," says Amanda, looking up. She glances away, down, and it's like a parody of shyness, so contrived she could almost laugh, the way people will fall for it, the way they'll fall for anything. "I mean," she says, quietly, "I'd like to."

"How much?" Brit arches her back, stretches her arms above her head. "How much do you want it?"

"I want it," Amanda says. And she does, she's hungry for it, but not like this. This is only a poor substitute, but it will sate her appetite. For now, anyway. "I want you," she says.

"Say please," says Brit. "Say 'please, may I lick your pretty cunt, Mistress.'"  
 _Fuck you_ , is what Amanda thinks, but she says it, oh-so-sincere, the words soft and tentative in her mouth like she's a child. "Please," she says, "please may I lick your pretty cunt, Mistress."

"Well," Brit says, opening her legs for Amanda to see, wet and wanting, "since you asked so _nicely_."

And Amanda crawls forward, leaning in, careful to tamper her eagerness. 

_I will watch you_ , she thinks. _I will watch you bleed._

She feels it, the rush. 

_I will watch you die_.

 

IV. _Lynn_

 _Think_ , Lynn tells herself. _Think_. She has to get out of here, she has to get out of this, there has to be a way out.

Except, it seems, there isn't.

The collar is heavy on her neck, awkward, rough edges digging into her skin, and he's right about one thing, at least, this guy, because it turns out she'd do anything to see her family again.

The irony's so rich it could almost make her laugh, but she guesses that's the point. She's been sleepwalking through her life, ignoring her husband, neglecting her daughter, doing her job in a manner that can only be described as half-assed. When Dylan died it... she takes a breath to even think of it, of him, her son, lying twisted and broken like a discarded doll. It was too much, too overwhelming, and the only way she had to deal with it was to numb herself. She took a step back inside her head and sat there, behind her eyes, going through the motions, watching other people live their lives.

And now she's here, and she supposes this is exactly what she deserves, striking empty bargains with the universe, the prayers of an unbeliever, thinking over and over, _I promise, I'll never take them for granted again, I just have to get out of here._ She takes a shaky breath, calms herself. _I just have to get back to them. Let me get back to them_.

She wanders round the workshop, looking for a means of escape, a weapon, anything. Something she could slip in her pocket, maybe, just for some kind of protection. The man (her _patient_ , she thinks bitterly) is physically weak, and it would seem his control over his... _assistant_ is fragile, bordering on tenuous. The girl is obviously unstable, clearly psychologically damaged and Lynn's reasonably certain she's on the edge of some kind of breakdown.

"I'm sorry," the girl says, out of nowhere, smooth voice making Lynn flinch in fright, "I know it's hard to concentrate when you're surrounded by so many things you could kill me with."

Lynn listens, and she tries to beg, tries to explain, but time is slipping away like water, clear and bright over stones.

"I think John likes you," the girl says. "He doesn't like many people, but I think he likes you."

"Jealous?" Lynn says, forgetting herself in frustration and anger and before she can think , before she can even _breathe_ she's pushed up against the workbench, arm twisted up behind her back till her shoulder is screaming with the pain.

"Don't fuck with me," the girl says. "I can end you, anytime I choose." Lynn concentrates on staying still as possible, staring straight ahead, letting herself go limp, pliant. "You should fight," says the girl. She laughs, presses herself close along Lynn's body, breasts pushing into her back. "It's better when you fight," she whispers, mouthing the words at Lynn's ear. She moves her hips, stroking herself up against Lynn like a cat, and _shit_ , this is bad, this is worse than she thought.

"Don't move," the girl says. She slides her hand into the front of Lynn's pants, rubbing at her, exploring, moving, insistent fingers probing into Lynn's dry folds. "God," she says, softly, "you're so uptight. All shrivelled up with grief." 

Lynn bites her lip, forcing herself not to reply. "I would have thought," the girl says, "that this would be turning you on." She laughs. "It's turning me on." Her touch is unrelenting, unforgiving, and Lynn winces, tells herself to relax. It doesn't help.

The girl steps back. "Turn around," she says, and Lynn obeys, then watches as the girl unzips her pants, lets them fall to the floor. She's not wearing underwear. "I bet you've never gone down on a woman," she says. 

Lynn doesn't say anything, because there's nothing to say. The girl nods to herself, sits on the edge of the workbench, her legs wide, seemingly unashamed and Lynn tries not to stare. _There has to be a way out_ , she tells herself, again, but the words are empty, without meaning. 

"Come on then," says the girl, and Lynn steps closer, sinks to her knees. The girl's hands are rough against her scalp, pulling her in, harsh and needy, and Lynn thinks of her daughter, pictures her face, her smile, the smell of her hair.

 _I love you_ , she thinks, and bends to her task. 

 

V. _Jill_

"He'll always love you best," you say, drawing circles on the skin of her abdomen. Anatomy, you think, organs, blood, where best to insert a blade, a needle, a device of your own choosing.

"Yes," she says, simply, and you're grateful she hasn't yet lied to you. She's given you that, at least.

She looks at you, her face unreadable. You remember her from the clinic, the first time you went there, her eyes kind, her touch firm but still gentle, professional. _There's help available, Amanda_ , she'd said to you, but it wasn't the kind of help you needed.

You stare back at her. "Are your tits real?" you ask, apropos of nothing, partly because you want to know, but mostly because you're interested to see how she'll react, curious to know if you can startle her, shock her.

She doesn't flinch, and, somehow, it makes you want to hate her less. "Yes," she says, perfectly neutral. 

"They don't look real," you say, sliding your hand up to touch. They _feel_ real, as you've previously discovered, and you shift yourself, lowering your mouth to her nipple, flicking it softly with your tongue.

"Everyone says that," she says, sounding far away, and you focus, concentrating your attentions. You want to disturb her, ask her if she would have breastfed Gideon, if she'd like you to call her mommy while you fuck her, if she feels empty inside, hollowed out and barren, but suddenly you don't have the energy to be cruel. 

You straddle her, sitting back on her thighs, and she watches you. "I know," she says, "that you want to be closer to him."

"You don't know what I want," you say. "You don't fucking know anything."

"Maybe not," she says. "Maybe I don't." She sounds tired, like someone who's ready to give up, and you realize that perhaps you have more in common than you would have ever thought.

But it's too late for any of that, and you feel like you might cry, almost. You close your eyes, try to find the place inside your head that calms you, that fuels you. You think of yourself in that room, steel digging into your jaw, the sheer terror, the strength, the will you had to survive. You remember how it felt, then, but, now, you feel nothing.

You don't feel anything.

You lie beside her, clenching your hands into fists at your sides, you thighs spread.

"I need to you be rough," you say, not looking at her as you speak. "I need that."

"I can do that," she says, quietly, and that might be pity in her voice but you choose to instead believe it's understanding.

And then her fingers are inside you, moving, and you think of John.

 _John_.


End file.
